


the alternative casebook

by yonderdarling



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternative Universe - Elementary (TV), F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Gen, Multi, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Kissing, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related, Relapsing, Tumblr Prompt, alternative universe, formatting exhausts me and i give up, relapse tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of ficlets; some AU, some conjecture, some codas. Reichenbach imaginings, domestic and diner AUs and post-finale speculation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the worst most disgusting AU ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> literally just the worst most disgusting domestic AU in history, based on [this](http://shaeried.tumblr.com/post/80214060113) gifset

Sherlock Holmes looked up from his computer as the front door opened, slammed and opened again. Smiling, he saved his latest additions to the report and headed into the entryway. Footsteps echoed through the Brownstone as Charlie and Emma ran down the corridor towards him.

Charlie got there first. Sherlock picked her up under the arms, lifted the giggling seven-year-old up to his chest.  
  
"Dad!"  
  
Sherlock pressed a kiss to her cheek. She giggled. "Welcome home from school. I love you, I want you to know that." He pivoted, put her down on the ground. "Okay, next child, please."  
  
Five-year-old Emma was picked up. "You are also my offspring." Sherlock pecked her on the temple. "I want you to know that I have a warm regard for you. Okay?" Emma was set down next to her sister, who continued to laugh. "Next!"  
  
"Sherlock," Joan said, still hanging up her coat, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. "How-"  
  
"Hi, you're my wife," he said, grabbing her around the waist. He kissed her on the corner of the mouth. "I love you the most." He swapped to a stage whisper. " _Don't tell the kids._ " She turned, his hands resting on her hips, and kissed him quickly.  
  
"How's Sam?" she asked. Joan traced her fingers along his jawline, frowned. "Did you remember to shave today?"

"He's been grizzly all day, haven't had time to shave," said Sherlock.  
  
He kissed Joan again, rubbing his stubble against her skin until she squirmed away laughing. At that, the baby started gurgling in the room off the hallway. Sherlock followed Joan into Sam's room.  
  
"Mum's home," said Sherlock, as Joan picked up the infant. Sherlock made a face at him over Joan's shoulder. "You're not bad. You haven't been here long, so our love hasn't really been solidified, but I still have a very warm affection for you."

" _Sherlock_."  
  
"I love you," said Sherlock to the baby, running his hand down his wife's back. "Despite your inability to control your bladder or sputum production. How was work?"  
  
"Hellish. Did you get much done today?"  
  
"Dinner is going to be a success, if Emma decides she can handle cheese-less broccoli for once and if Charlie doesn't try and feed her beans to Clyde again. Other than that, no. But Gregson will understand." He poked Sam in the nose, turned back to Emma and Charlie.  
  
"Right, girls, homework out at the table in five minutes! No more, no less!"  
  
The girls ran upstairs with their schoolbags still strapped on.  
  
"You're such a weirdo," said Joan, stepping past him with Sam.  
  
"I'm the weirdo you married," he said. Joan paused in the doorway, went on tiptoe, kissed him lightly.  
  
"You just wanted tall kids, didn't you?" Sherlock said against her lips.  
  
"Mmhmm. Well, you turned out alright as well."  
  
"Ah, my dear Watson. I love you too."

 


	2. see you soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the last hours before reichenbach

"You've five minutes, Mr. Holmes," said the agent, buttoning up her trenchcoat. "I'll wait outside before we head for the falls."

Sherlock nodded, fingers drumming on the arms of his chair. "See you shortly, Wagner. Thank you."

Joan gave a weak smile to the agent as she left, not trusting herself to speak. It had been one of the longest nights of her life, sitting up with Sherlock, half-pretending it was a normal night solving cases and knowing-

"I am terrified," Sherlock said, looking straight ahead, eyes wide and pupils blown. His fingers continued to beat out patterns on the chair. "I understand how this works. We've rehearsed, as best we can. Wagner is excellent at what she does but-" he paused, the drumming halted, and looked at his hand. Joan had covered it with her own. She could feel his pulse thrumming.  
  
Sherlock plucked at Joan's sleeve. "This is mine," he said, confused.  
  
Joan ran her hand down the front of the blue sweater with white and red diamond patterns. "You left it in my room once," said Joan. "I was packing in a hurry and it got mixed in."

Sherlock kept holding onto the sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. "A likely story," he finally said.

"I'll see you soon," she said. 

"At least a year," Sherlock recited. "Projections run up to three and a half years. Moriarty's organisation is like a Hydra, Sherlock. If we cut off a head, another two are going to grow in its place." He sighed. The report itself was still on the table, finally closed. "Thank you for sitting up with me."

Joan realised she was staring at his profile, trying to memorise it. "I wouldn't have missed it."

"Make sure word gets to Kitty. Somehow."

"She'll come back to New York when she hears," Joan said. "I'm sure she will."

Sherlock nodded stiffly, then looked across at her. "I don't mean to sound patronising, but please look after yourself. Don't put your life on pause because this time I told you where I'm going."

"You're telling me to be sensible?" He didn't seem to realise he had begun squeezing her hand. Joan placed her other hand on his wrist, rubbed her fingers in small circles.

Sherlock shifted his head from side to side. "Funny. I now have more in common with my brother than I ever thought I would." He looked over at Joan again. "There'll be a funeral. Make sure my mother will be okay."

She's going to have lost two sons, Joan realised. "I'll try. We already talked about this."

The drumming started up again, Sherlock tapping the toes of his shoes against the carpet. "I shall miss you terribly. I did last time - I went away." He studied his knees. "I'm so sorry. I was too ashamed, and too angry to say goodbye."

"You're saying goodbye this time."

Sherlock let out a shaky sigh, looked at the clock on the wall. Outside, Wagner waited. He pulled his hand away from Joan's, rubbed his fingers together.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "For leaving."

"You don't need to apologise this time," said Joan. "This is Moriarty. It's out of our control. And I guess I'm playing a role this time, too."

There was a sudden bang on the door from outside. "One minute, Holmes!" 

Sherlock rested his hands on his knees. Breathed out, looking intently at the patterns of the carpet. 

"Can I kiss you?" he asked. 

"What?"

"I just - " Sherlock shrugged. "Can I?"

"We didn't hug for the first four years we knew each other, and you want to do that?"

"I'm a dead man walking, Watson, let me have my final wish."

Joan snorted, then realised she was welling up. "Well, when you put it like that." 

Sherlock's shoulders moved up and down, and for a moment she wondered if he was laughing or crying. Sherlock slipped off his chair onto the carpet, shuffled over so he was kneeling between Watson's sweatpant-clad legs. He rested his hands on her knees, looked up to meet her gaze. 

Sherlock's hands came up to delicately cup her face, his fingertips resting on her cheekbones, warm against her skin. He brought his face up slowly to hers, pausing millimetres from her as his eyes closed. Carefully he pressed his lips against her own. One hand remaining on her cheek, Sherlock moved his other hand down her neck then back into her hair, his fingers threading through it around the back of her head. Joan's eyes fluttered shut, moved her own hands to Sherlock's shoulders, then his neck. He leant in closer to her, pressing their chests together and moving his hands back to her face, Joan feeling the callouses on his fingers dragging across her skin.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock pulled away, rested his forehead against her own. Joan opened her eyes again; Sherlock's were still closed. 

"Is this a bad time for declarations of platonic affection?" he asked.

"How so?" she asked.

Sherlock moved his head forward, kissed her hard and fast, then pulled away, still resting his forehead against her own. "Thank you, Joan Watson, for everything."

Joan waited. Sherlock moved his head slightly, and her hand came up of its own accord and cupped his jaw. "Wagner is being exceptionally generous with this remaining minute," he said, and sat back on his heels. "I left a letter for you. For after I go over the falls. It's back at the Brownstone."

"Is this why you went back inside even when we were running late for the plane?"

"I can't - I couldn't find-"

There was another bang at the door. "Holmes! That was your minute and a bit!" The agent outside shouted. "We really need to go."

Sherlock swallowed. "I'll see you soon, I hope." He stood abruptly, turned to leave.

"Hey, wait," said Joan, standing and snagging his sleeve. "What's in the letter?"

"You know what's in the letter," said Sherlock, and his jaw tensed slightly. 

Joan gave his hand one final squeeze. "I think I do."

Sherlock pulled away, rocked on the spot, face losing what little colour remained. 

"Sherlock, I-"

"Time to go!" came the voice from outside, accompanied by another bang on the door. Joan watched Sherlock take a deep breath, turn and walk out of the room. She wiped her palms on her knees, drew her arms back so her sleeves covered her hands.

"I'll see you soon," she said to the empty room.

 


	3. better (scenes following a relapse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wish you could have known me better." The jumbled days following a relapse, and attempted returns to equilibrium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've stared at this for weeks and I don't think I'll ever be happy with it; but I think there's something here. I'm trying to find a balance between former-companion/doctor, carer Joan and Joan being her own, autonomous person who is Sherlock's friend, which is something I think a lot of fic writers are struggling with when envisioning the aftermath of season three.

_"I wish you could have known me better."_

These are the first words in four days he addresses to her that aren't practicalities - "yes," "thank you," "i'm going to be sick" - or the apologies in the early hours of his return, desperate slurred repetitions of "I'm sorry Watson, I'm sorry, he was right, I'm sorry." 

 Sherlock's father's words are still echoing through the rooms of the Brownstone, expectations of Sherlock working cases for the family; talk of a new sober companion being hired to monitor both of them. Joan dissuades Holmes the Senior of this, reminding him the sobriety program has sponsors _for a reason_ , relapses _happen_ (and not necessarily for _a reason_ , though this one had so many). Subsequently she is accused of using Sherlock for his money. The resulting shouting match rings in Joan's ears an hour later as she lies on the couch, one hand over her eyes. 

 She hasn't the energy to ask Sherlock what he means. The past four days are a nauseating blur of searching for Sherlock, him falling over the doorstep at 2am, checking in on Alfredo, on his family, calling Marcus to tell him Sherlock was home, cancelling Miss Hudson's usual visit because the "last thing she deserves, Watson, is crossing paths with my father and his Victorian morality. You can make yourself absent-"

"If you think I'm leaving you alone with your father while you're in this state, you've got another thing coming."

 (That had been the first smile from Sherlock since the relapse, a twitch of the corner of his mouth, his head ducking down into his chest. Then, his face still pale and unshaven, eyes bloodshot, he had shut the door of his room.)

Her job was slightly easier (and it shouldn't be her job, and they've done well not falling back into old habits) due to the slightly eerie, practical way Sherlock approached his relapse. Eating mechanically when food was in front of him, toting around a drink bottle full of electrolyte fluid, dressing in layers that were easy to pull on and off as he alternatively sweated and froze. He stayed quiet and out of the way. On the second night Joan found him asleep on the floor of the laundry, the small room warm and steamy as he'd put his sheets through the machine and the dryer. Joan draped a blanket over him, sat up for an hour in her room reading and listening to the dryer thump (it was unbalanced, Sherlock had promised to fix it weeks ago) far away in the Brownstone like a distant heartbeat. 

He loses time, spaces out through the withdrawal, and she finds him on the roof at eleven PM, on the stairs at 1AM scratching at his forearms, sleeping in the bathtub at three in the afternoon because it's easier to deal with the nausea that way, cold porcelain and running water that he splashes on his face and lets trickle down his neck. He covers the mirror with a towel.  

\-----

 

 _"I wish you could have known me better."_  

She could ask. She's barely got the energy to open her eyes, yet alone the inclination to once again be the practical one, the clinical one, she who makes dry toast and leaves it outside his bedroom with a sharp tap on the door. And so she waits, dozing on the couch in the lounge, because at least they're not homeless after everything. Sherlock is propping himself up in his armchair, trying to find some sense of self-control after the events of the last four days. 

Joan wakes up briefly when Sherlock places a poorly-made cup of tea on the table for her, wakes up properly when it's dark outside, the tea is cold, and hears the shower running. She peels herself off the couch, walks over and bangs on the wall of the stairs three times; waits for the returning three thumps. He hasn't passed out in the shower or aspirated on his own vomit then. So. Joan orders pizza for dinner. 

\-----

 

For the first time since relapsing, Sherlock comes downstairs without prompting, eats slowly, picks the mushrooms off and arranges them on the edge of his plate with greasy fingers.

"Eat it or don't eat it, just don't play with it."

"I'm sorry," says Sherlock, for the hundredth time.

"It's okay," she replies, for the ninety-ninth. Screws up her courage, finds some tiny remaining part of emotional energy within. "This afternoon. What you said, you want to elaborate on that?"

"You're going to have to be more specific than that, Watson. Though I thought mine and father's relationship was rather clear."

She waves her hand. "I wish you could have known me better."

"Oh."

Four days ago this would have been where Sherlock stood, straightened his crisp jacket and made a stilted yet compassionate speech to her about his feelings and her feelings and her importance to him. Joan- 

 (will hold _"I am better with you, Watson,"_ and _"I will change, for you,"_ and _"_ _you know why I didn't? Because of you_ _"_ and _"you and I are bound, somehow"_ to her heart forever, remembers them just as she remembers coming back to the Brownstone to find it empty but for sheets over the furniture and a five-sentence note, just as she remembers a few nights ago and Sherlock trying to pick the lock and sneak back in, catching him as he fell over the threshold and he sank to his knees, dirt ground in his grey face, "I'm sorry Watson, I'm sorry-")

 "-Watson," says this Sherlock, wiping his fingertips delicately on his napkin, then running one hand over the stubble on his face, not liking the sensation. "I'm not prone to flights of fancy. But over the past few years. I have caught myself wondering. Wondering." he sighs, studies the pile of slimy grey mushrooms, gestures at himself. "If I wasn't a junkie. If I had been in control of my habits, or more willing to get help when I was younger. If not for," and here his face twists, an old trigger made freshly painful, "Irene. Moriarty. We wouldn't have met if not for so many events. But I am inclined to wonder-"

Joan is glad he's using words of more than one syllable for the first time in days, but he trails off, fascinated by his mushrooms. Sleep deprivation; withdrawal, emotionally drained both by relapse and the appearance of his father. He's not the only one.

"If we would have still met if you were clean and I hadn't lost my patient?"

His eyes are less bloodshot than the previous days when he looks up and meets her gaze. 

"You once said you and I are bound somehow."

"The first year I came to New York solo was the year you began your residency. I did make a visit or two to various emergency rooms. Or the summer you spent in the UK in your first year of college." Sherlock tilts his head, purses his lips. 

She really should say, "Sherlock. There's no point in playing the what-if game. I know what you're going through right now is horrible. But wishing it away isn't-" But she's tired, and so she says, "we could be running a detective agency in London for all I know," she says. "Holmes and Watson out of 221B Baker Street." 

Sherlock half-smiles again, looking at his lap. "I like it. Has a nice ring to it."

"Imagine if I'd met you when I was in college. I was still half-believing in my mom's dream for me, marrying some rich English guy and setting up across the pond."

"Married with three kids? I thought you weren't sure about procreating."

"Hey, it was college. No one knows what they want in college. Apart from more sleep." Joan rubs her eyes. "But yeah, married with three kids. And a dog."

"Our hypothetical marriage is busy enough with three children. We're not having a dog."

"Two dogs. We got them for the kids. And a cat."

Sherlock eats one of his mushrooms, grimaces. "But I wish it. Just." he gestures vaguely with both hands at their general surrounds. "Wish. You have seen me at the most horrific lows. You've never known me without drugs hanging over my head. Without my family. Me as the disappointment. My brother… _was_ lazy. But I actively destroyed myself. Attempted to."

"That's what your dad said," Joan says. "That doesn't make it true."

"And then I broke a mug."

"And then you _threw_ a mug."

"I threw a mug. I'll clean-" Sherlock looks over at the corner, sees the dent in the plaster but the absence of china shards. "I'm sorry." One hundred and one. "If you feel like smashing anything, I'll be right there with the dustpan next time."

"I'm gonna hold you to that. Won't cash it in right now." Joan looks at her hands. "Do you want to talk about anything your father said? I mean. There was a lot to unpick there. Or anything you said to him."

The old Sherlock would smile, twitch his jaw, meet her gaze. The old one had a sponsor who he could talk this out with. This one again attempts to eat a mushroom, shakes his head.

"Are you finished?" he asks, pointing at her plate. Joan nods, and Sherlock takes their dishes to the sink, puts the leftover pizza in the fridge.

"Once Alfredo is feeling capable, we shall begin our search for a new sponsor," he says. Fills the kettle, puts it on the stove. "Tea?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Thank you, Watson." 


	4. three ways to fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a kind of experimental thing i wrote following the finale that i never posted here. three scenes of relapse.

_i_. he knows the number off by heart and he holds the phone to his ear; three rings and Watson's intake of breath, the hustle-bustle of people around, the sound of an engine, sirens-

 "Sherlock," she says, worried and relieved (Alfredo is alright, he's going to be alright) and tired and pleased, "Are you okay?"

 "Watson," he says, and he's always liked how that feels on his tongue, the swerve of the "Wa-" syllable, the tapping of the "t" on the roof of his mouth, the swoop of the "son." He can harden or soften the centre of the word; a rebuke, an order, a shout, a petname, Watson, Watson _Watson_ , 

 

"Watson."

 

" _Sherlock_." It's harder, and she's concerned butdistracted, he can hear the noise of a gurney being trundled out of an ambulance. He grits his teeth against the lie, feels hard stones and metal scraps pressing against his thighswhere he sits on the ground, the concrete of the tunnel cold in his back. He is steeped in reality and the sharp edges of things; he is no different. Oscar was right. The metal box is warm in his left hand, he holds the phone, growing hot, in his right.

"I'm fine," he finally says, and water starts trickling out of his eyes, fat hot tears that blur his vision and make the world greyer. "Alfredo?"

"He's going to be okay, he's dehydrated and his temperature is high, but he's healthy, he's strong. Sherlock. Where are you?"

"I'm walking. I'm alright. I'm alright."

"Sherlock, I-" And he pulls the phone away from his ear, presses disconnect. Thinks about throwing it, but lays it on the stone next to him. Sets the box delicately upon it, shrugs off his coat, rolls up his sleeves. 

 

 

  **ii**. he can f e e l and (see )the world slipping away like warm paint and the phone next to him is ringing and it's her it's _her_ it's _Watson_ (he loves her), and she greets him - 

"Sherlock, Alfredo's going to be fine. We're on the way to the hospital now, Marcus is driving. are you okay? where are you?"

"Watson."

"are you oka y?" 

"i - Watson. Wat son."

there's an edge of metal, cold/quivering and sharp in her voice. "Sherlock. are you okay." dimly, in the background. Bell. "Joan? What's going on?"

"Sher l ock what have you d o n e."

There's the taste of salt in his mouth and his face is wet. Lets himself fall to one side Looking across at the dead girl. shestares at nothing. there is nothing to be seen.

"Watson i'm sorry _Watson_. im sorry, imsorry. msorry. -i " (imsorryiloveyouimsorry)

There is a gasp, deep and guttural/fearful, and her voice snaps something to bell and she yells sherlock and phone falls out of hishands c l at te rsto the cold col dg r o un d and 

 

hes ee s n o t h ing.

 

 

iii. He could call Watson he can't call Alfredo he can't call Mycroft (why has that come back to haunt him why Mycroft today why now and his gaze falls upon the corpse of Olivia and that is why Mycroft here now today "you are my brother, Sherlock" we were raised together We Are Family like _that_ explains _everything_.)

He could call Watson he doesn't have a sober companion right now he fired Alfredo so he could be his Friend look where being a Friend of Sherlock fucking Holmes gets you but she is Watson she will always be there he didn't earn that and now he is trying to Watson will always come through for him

\---and these thoughts all happen as he automatically takes off coat. unbuttons collar. unbuttons sleeves, rolls up sleeves. sits on coat, legs in front of him like matchsticks "with the wood scraped off, Sherlock! Ha!" shiny shoes intact laced well he's got clean dry matched socks on he did that himself he did the washing this week because Watson did it last week and she did the shopping--

he could call Watson but instead he stands and throws the phone as hard as he can against the wall and it shatters, cracks webbing across the screen; junkie's phones don't last long and he Can't Call Watson now and he could punch the wall because that would be so very _Manly_ and Oscar is still unconscious outside and it felt so good to hurt him but so much regret. He swipes angrily at his face with the heels of his hands, tears flowing out with nothing to stop them. 

Kneels back on his coat; finds the box. Its lid is stiff with grime and hard to open.

He is well-practised with this; it's like the violin again, (he burnt that thing to a crisp) and there is string in this box as well, and he wraps this around his arm with blank eyes and a damp face unthinking mind and then he reaches for the box again then then he doesn't think for a long time after that.

 


	5. breakfast at emily's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a tumblr prompt. Joan's been stood up while trying to sort shit out with her ex-boyfriend. She'll give him two more minutes. Then she's going. Two minutes. Five minutes. She'll give him five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lisa, for her belated birthday. This is neither what you asked for, nor what I expected to write. Based on this prompt by peacetealuke: 
> 
> "Imagine that you’ve been stood up by your douche of a boyfriend on date night and the waitress keeps asking if you’re ready to order but you keep asking for more time hoping that he’s just late. [...] as you decide to just get up and leave, this boy you’ve never seen sits down explaining loudly “sorry i’m so late, babe, traffic is crazy right now.” and he quietly adds, “i’m Michael. just go with it, yeah? whoever didn’t bother to show up is a dick.” and so you do go with it because he’s being sweet [...] and as you’re leaving the restaurant after the best non-planned date ever, he asks you out for real this time."
> 
> It drifted slightly, as these things are wont to do. Thanks to Soraya for looking this over for me.

**THURSDAY, 8.50 PM**

She'd said 8.45, she knew she had. He _knew_ she was she was finishing her shift at 8, she always did on Thursdays, so give an extra fifteen minutes for handover, fifteen minutes to shower and get rid of her scrubs, another fifteen to navigate the lightened traffic and-

Meet at the diner. Joan checked her phone again anyway. Yes. Diner, 8.45. 

"Can I get you anything, miss?"

The waitress was lovely; she was a student who was always studying in the quiet periods whenever Joan came to this place. No memory for faces though.

"Maybe just some water," said Joan, and the waitress - Lottie, apparently - gave her a wan smile and headed back for the kitchen.

 

She'd give him till nine.

 

 

**9.02**

Joan drummed her fingers on the table, brought out her cell phone. Put it away again.

 

 

**9.06**

A figure outside the misty window caught her eye - Joan turned. Brown hair, green scarf, about the right height. She twisted in her seat properly, but the man outside wasn't Liam and strode right past the door. She slumped back down, ran her fingers through her hair. 

 

Two more minutes.

 

 

**9.08**

Lottie swung by again, topped up her water.

"Could I just get a coffee, please?" Joan asked.

"Sure thing."

 

Joan caved, pulled out her cell and typed quickly while chewing her lower lip. 

> JOAN: Where are you?

 

 

**9.15**

Five more minutes. Then she was _gone_.

She checked her phone again. Nothing. 

 

 

**9.17**

She was _going_. In two minutes.

 

"Could I get some more coffee, please?"

"Sure thing. I'm just putting on a fresh pot, so it might be a couple minutes, unless you want decaf."

"That's fine, I'm happy to wait."

"Anything else? Do you want to get some food?"

"I'm um, I'm meeting someone. I think I'll wait."

 

 

**9.25**

Lottie topped up her coffee and brought her a free cookie. Joan didn't know whether to smile or cry. 

Liam had downloaded CandyCrush onto her phone a few days earlier. She opened the small, brightly coloured app.

 

 

**9.32**

> JOAN: I'm getting worried are you coming?

 

 

**9.36**

>  JOAN: I'm leaving if you're not here in five mins this is my only night off until next Tuesday

 

 

**9.45**

Another coffee top-up. Joan scrolled through her email account, frowning at the two unanswered ones she had from her mom, one about Oren's engagement party. That was something to worry about - tomorrow. When she'd sorted things out with Liam.

Joan sighed. When he showed up. If. _If_.

She'd give him five more minutes.

 

 

**9.47**

"What are you reading?" Joan asked Lottie. 

The waitress looked up from where she was sitting at the counter. "Introduction to Gender in International Law. I took this semester off from college, but I want to be ready when I get back. Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks-"

The door swung open. Both Joan and Lottie looked around.

"Oh, evening Joseph," said Lottie, slipping off her stool. "The usual?"

Joan looked back down at her phone to find a new text from Emily.

>  EMILY: Has he shown up yet?

She swiped to reply, then sighed. Laid it back down on the table. Lottie swung by with a refill.

> JOAN: Not yet
> 
> EMILY: you're still staying over tonight yeah?
> 
> EMILY: remember this is why you're breaking up in the first place honey

 

 

**9.52**

> LIAM: Shit sorry just woke up 

Joan sighed, waited for the next text to arrive.

> LIAM: You still there?

 

 

**9.55**

Green scarf guy - at least, she thought it was him - wandered past the window again.  

>  LIAM: Joanie?
> 
> JOAN: Again? Seriously? 

 

**9.57**

> LIAM: Don't be like this Joanie you know I didn't mean it

The door swung open, and Joan saw Lottie stand up to greet the customer. She turned back to her phone, moved her thumbs across the keyboard, not even sure what she wanted to say. Instead she put it back down on the table and ran her hands through her hair, closing her eyes. 

 

 

**9.58**

"Darling," said a man's voice. "I am so, so sorry. Traffic on the West bridge was atrocious and my phone was flat and I-"

Liam was most certainly not English, and he never called her darling. Joan opened her eyes to see a tall white guy with stubble standing opposite her. With a bunch of sunflowers, weirdly vibrant in the fluorescent diner lighting. 

"Uh - " she said.

"I'm Sherlock," he whispered, noting Lottie's sudden but well-hidden curiosity. "Being stood up is actually terrible, feel free to throw your water in my face."

"Did you see me from outside?" she said. "I recognise your scarf."

"Yes, actually," he said. "I was on my way to a meeting when I saw you. On the way back from wasting another hour of my life, and I saw you either really enjoy the atmosphere of American 24-hour diners or you were still waiting for someone."

Joan raised both her eyebrows at him. He placed the flowers on the table in front of her.  

"Either way, he's probably not truly worthy of your time." he waited for her to respond. "There's no water in my face. May I sit?"

"Okay," said Joan slowly. "Where'd you get the flowers?"

He took the seat opposite her. "I saw you again, and I kept walking because well, it's cold outside. But then there was a man selling flowers, though I'm fairly certain it was a front for illegal cigarettes. Seemed meant to be. I was quite dismissive of some of my partners in my youth - I've been trying to make up for that since I matured."

"What kind of a name is Sherlock?"

"May I ask your name first?"

"It's Joan," said Joan. She moved the flowers to the side of the table. "Thank you for these, they're lovely and - weird."

"Yes, it is weird. If you need to go, please, feel free."

Her phone vibrated.

>  LIAM: Joanie im not coming if you're going to act like this

"My boyfriend," she said, then shook her head, put her phone down. "Ex-boyfriend, anyway. We were meant to meet to talk some stuff out, but, as you can see. He's not here."

"Should I ask for details?"

"If you want my life story."

"Maybe I do."

Joan raised an eyebrow.

"Well, to be frank, I don't. You're a surgeon?"

"How can you tell?" Joan asked, finding herself leaning forward.

"Can I buy you dinner?"

"If you tell me how you know I'm a surgeon."

 

 

**10.05**

"Can I get the cheeseburger with the wedges, thanks?" asked Joan. "And just some more water please."

"Are the waffles any good?" Sherlock asked. 

Lottie gave him a cool look. "They're alright," she said finally.

"Fantastic, I'll have those, but could I please have honey with them instead?"

"Sure. Is that all?" Lottie took his menu. "Right. Coming up." She smiled at Joan and headed back to the kitchen.

"I am a detective. Consulting detective. I found myself in a rut in London, slipping into bad habits while working for Scotland Yard and so I took myself to greener pastures here in New York when a former colleague invited me."

Joan sipped her water. "A consulting detective."

"I observe, I deduce. Observed the calluses on your fingers, the texture of your skin - you keep odd hours or you wouldn't be meeting an ex on a Thursday evening, and you smell distinctly of hospital grade handsoap." Sherlock shrugged, looked vaguely smug. 

"And so the NYPD hire you when they have cases they can't solve?"

"I never said I worked for the NYPD."

"Scotland Yard, makes sense you'd move to the NYPD. You don't seem like the kind of guy to work for a private company."

"Now that is true."

 

 

 

**10.21**

"We're waiting on your waffles," said Lottie shortly, dropping Joan's burger off at the table. Joan waited till the waitress had left before meeting Sherlock's gaze. 

"I like her. She's risking a tip for you."

"Do they tip in England?"

"We have a living minimum wage. Please, don't wait for mine to arrive."

"Must be nice. Could you pass the ketchup?"

Sherlock passed it. Joan put the bottle by her plate, found her scrunchie on her wrist and carefully put her hair into a ponytail, before pouring a small puddle on the side of her plate.

"Would you like some wedges?"

"I thought you'd never ask," said Sherlock, taking one. "So tell me, Joan, do you do anything outside of work and dealing with your terrible boyfriend? And jogging."

 

 

 

**10.32**

"Are your waffles any good?"

"Delicious."

"You know you're not meant to eat them with honey - it's maple syrup."

He finished chewing. "Go to support the bees somehow."

"You like bees?"

Sherlock swallowed, looked up at her wide-eyed. "I love bees."

"You don't keep them as pets, do you?"

 

 

 

**10.49**

"Bees? On your roof?"

"Ten minutes on colony collapse disorder and that's what you take away," said Sherlock, taking a sip of water.

"What do you feed them? Do you keep flowers there, or do they just fly around and find their own pollen?"

"Free range bees," said Sherlock. "There's sugar water involved. But, now. Joan. Tell me about your boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend."

"You think."

"I think. Well. We met about four years ago in the ER. I was about to finish my shift, and I'd been up for over 40 hours when this guy walks in. Looks absolutely fine…."

 

 

 

 

**11.13**

"You're being ridiculous. You could _not_ have arrested a guy because you saw ocelot fur on his pants."

"I didn't know it was ocelot fur at the time, I just knew he didn't keep cats."

 

 

 

**11.24**

"So he says to me, I swear Doctor, I wasn't the one who put in there."

Sherlock stared at her. "How did he fit something like that into his ear canal?"

"Beats me."

 

 

 

**11.35**

"I knew the painting was the real deal," said Sherlock. "Unfortunately I couldn't bring myself to lie to the man who'd sent me to investigate; he was always very supportive of my chosen career."

"So you had Irene Adler arrested?"

"Well, not right away."

"You didn't sleep with her, did you?" 

"If I did, would you let me at least buy you dessert before you judge me as completely without morals?"

"Well," said Joan.

"It was insane," said Sherlock, and handed her the menu. "Wild crazy art-thief sex."

 

 

**11.40**

"The cheesecake is really good," said Lottie. "Do you want some more coffee as well?"

 

 

**11.45**

"No, seriously," said Joan. "Just try a bite."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. One. But I've never liked cheesecake."

 

 

**11.47**

"Can we get another slice of this please?"

 

 

 

**FRIDAY, 12.03 AM**

>  LIAM: Are you coming home?

Joan put the phone back down. 

"The ex?"

"The ex," she said with a sigh. "Ugh. We were living together. Still are, sort of. Got to sort that out still."

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" Sherlock asked. "Not that I'm offering. We've just met. Unless you really need a place."

"My friend Emily knows what's happening," said Joan. "I've been staying at her place. Actually, God, it's midnight. I'll just message her, see if she's still cool with that."

"Absolutely. I might grab the check," Sherlock said, waving Lottie over from where she was mopping. "Take your time."

> JOAN: Hey sorry yeah i'm still staying at yours if that's okay?
> 
> EMILY: Sure thing :) did he show?
> 
> JOAN: no
> 
> JOAN: But I met this really nice guy? 
> 
> EMILY: what. joan watson. what.
> 
> JOAN: He's bought me dinner? 
> 
> EMILY: joan WATSON this is not like YOU
> 
> EMILY: Is he a serial killer
> 
> JOAN: I don't think so - he says he's actually a detective
> 
> EMILY: Okay just text me when you're leaving so i know if you like are alive, unmurdered etc
> 
> EMILY: bring him here if you want??? 
> 
> EMILY: omg
> 
> JOAN: No. Oh my god no. 
> 
> EMILY: yeah actually walls r super thin
> 
> JOAN: college throwback

 

"Everything sorted?" Sherlock asked, doling out what looked like much more than a 10% tip.

"Uh, yeah," said Joan. "Just wants to check you're not going to murder me and throw my body in the river."

Sherlock opened his mouth, shut it. "Well I was going to ask for your number, but you have a point there." He fumbled in a pocket, came up with a crumpled receipt and a pen. He quickly scrawled his cell number on it, along with SHERLOCK HOLMES, slid it across the table to her. "Don't give me yours," he said, holding up a hand. "The ball is in your court."

"Thanks," said Joan, taking the receipt and copying it into her phone. She tucked the slip of paper into her pocket anyway.

"If you need a detective. Or a friend."

"Or someone to have wild crazy rebound sex with."

 

 

**12.07**

> JOAN: Hey im getting into a cab rn be there in a bit
> 
> EMILY: right see you soon
> 
> EMILY: don't bring your stalker. unless he's hot.
> 
> JOAN: I'll just bring the flowers he bought me then
> 
> JOAN: okay that sounded less creepy in my head
> 
> JOAN: i am ALONE IN THE CAB it's FINE
> 
> EMILY: riiiiiight
> 
> EMILY: check you're not being followed
> 
> JOAN: I'm noooooot

 

> LIAM: Where r u??
> 
> JOAN: staying at emily's. i'll see you at home tomorrow before work. be ready to talk.

 

 

 **TUESDAY, 8.46 PM**  

> UNKNOWN NUMBER: So how about that wild crazy rebound sex
> 
> SHERLOCK: Surely you owe me dinner first
> 
> UNKNOWN NUMBER: It's a date :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 **WEDNESDAY, 1.01 AM**  

> EMILY: so i take it your date is going well?
> 
> JOAN: okay he wasn't kidding about the wild crazy sex
> 
> EMILY: are you serious
> 
> JOAN: ;)
> 
> EMILY: joan WATSON
> 
> EMILY: I'm so proud of you

 

 

 

**THE END**

 

 

 

 


	6. will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is sitting in front of her, holding a ring. Joan takes a minute. No, she doesn't get a minute. Not with Sherlock. She takes a half-second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very long time since I wrote anything for Elementary (I watched most of the fourth season in four days as I was away for work) so this is me trying to get back into it. Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes is sitting in front of her, holding a ring.

 

Joan takes a minute. No, she doesn't get a minute. Not with Sherlock. She takes a half-second.

 

Perhaps it's that the sleep she's managed to get hasn't been good quality. She's had her eight hours, sure, but it's stirred by memories like the smell of vodka and the tackiness of dried blood on her fingers as they held a boxcutter between them; Andrew choking on the floor of a café, his sclera turning red and bloodshot.

It's been a long day, a long week, a long year, a long four years since she met Sherlock, and she's also fairly certain there's still drain hair and a cockroach on the kitchen table. It's been four years of drug counselling and roommates and partners and working solo.

The Captain, Marcus, Kitty, Mycroft, her mom's health issues, the newly-noticeable hole her biological dad left in her life. Cortez. Her new half-sister (she hasn't even told Oren, her mom or her stepdad yet, because if _that_ isn't a face-to-face conversation, she doesn't know what is).

Sherlock's broken her boundaries and fixed them and violated them and rebuilt them a dozen times, and she doesn't know what to think.

Regardless, for the half-second after she walks into the living room, this phrase is on her tongue.

"I'm already in your will."

It's that out of body moment where she knows all the facts, they're bare in front of her and she can see them - just as she should have known as her patient bled out in front of her ("it's the vena cava, the superior vena cava, Doctor Watson, Watson, Joan, _Joan_ \- "), just as she knew what she had to do when she saw Emil Kurtz's body lying on the floor of a shot-up diner. With Kurtz, she did do something.

The facts are in front of her, staring at her again. This time. Again. She can react. And so, she gives him a non-reaction.

 

Why would he ask? She's his emergency contact. She's already in his will.

 

Sherlock's attributed one-third of his trusts and available funds to her ("However denuded they may be by that point, Watson," he told her that dull afternoon, some Australian rock band blaring in the background. "I've been meaning to update this since I. Since my relapse.")

She'll also get the majority of the contents of the Brownstone (the Greek and Roman texts have been left to Miss Hudson, a few choice artworks to Alfredo) and custody of Clyde ("Or, he gets custody of you. Clyde will outlive us both.").

Another chunk of Sherlock's money will go to various drug-related charities, a HIV-AIDS research fund, and the Widows and Orphans funds of both the NYPD and Scotland Yard.

This all occurs to her, and she stops imagining the worst-case scenarios. Breathes. Realises Sherlock isn't imagining those worst-case scenarios, regardless.

Takes another half-second, because that's all life seems to give her, these days.

Breathes again. Lets Sherlock talk.

He doesn't want to marry her. Neither of them are built for that, though it took her much longer to realise that about herself.

Sherlock talks. He always does, but this is one of the times where she must listen, where it's halting and bitter and painful for him to speak like this.

 

He talks about his mother. She holds the ring, the box heavy in her hand, furry with dust. Gives it back.

 

After Sherlock goes off to sleep or eat or stare at the wall or chain himself to a ladder while wearing roller-skates, Joan takes a minute. Makes herself a cup of tea. She goes upstairs, and calls her mom. Doesn't let on that anything's wrong. Just enjoys the sound of her voice. Her tea goes cold. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [see you soon [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9269195) by [disheveledcurls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disheveledcurls/pseuds/disheveledcurls)




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